The Real Thing

Summary:

“See, that does work better than punching you, doesn’t it?”

Notes:

For cutelevi's Tumblr prompt from this post: "If you keep looking at me like that, we won’t make it to a bed."

Work Text:

It doesn’t take long to realize Wanda just isn’t on the same level as the other New Avengers when it comes to training. It’s okay, really—Rhodey, Sam, and Steve are military, Natasha is military in an entirely different way, and Vision is an android, for chrissakes. Natasha doesn’t expect Wanda to be on par with their skills or expertise. Besides, the woman can read minds and manipulate energy. She’s covering a lot of ground that no one else can even touch.

But that doesn’t mean Natasha doesn’t work her just as hard when they get into the gym.

“You need to keep your hands up,” Natasha says, nudging Wanda’s elbows so her fists are at either side of her face. Her temples are damp with sweat, brow furrowed in intense concentration. “You don’t want anyone marking up that pretty face, do you?”

Wanda shoots her a dirty look, the same kind she’d give Stark if he made a similar comment. But they both know Natasha means well. Having another woman on the team comes with perks, and the friendly teasing is just one of them. “You know, if I choose, I can make a man shoot himself in the head with his own gun.” She raises her loosely-curled fists. “It would work much better than punching him in the face.”

Natasha bristles a bit at the comment, but she knows it isn’t Wanda’s fault. It’s just how Wanda is, how her body wants to act. Callousness towards violence is something Natasha had to work long and hard to train herself out of—scratch that, mindless violence. It’s not a reflex she’s eager to relearn, and it isn’t one she wants to instill in one of their newest teammates. “But we’ve established that it isn’t practical when you’ve got fifteen men trying to take you down. You’re still young. Both your mind and body need tuning up.”

“I’m not a car,” Wanda grumbles, but eases into a fighting stance, knees slightly bent. “Can I punch you?”

“Go for it,” Natasha says, not missing a beat. By the time Wanda’s fist lashes out, Natasha is already flipping the other woman down onto the mat with a hollow thunk, Wanda’s long hair fanning out in a dark ripple.

Wanda makes a noise of frustration, and when she looks up, her eyes are flashing. She reaches out slowly, hand already weaving a luminescent red thread, and says, “If you trust me to not hurt you, I can show you other ways to take a man down.”

Natasha swallows hard, automatically flinching away from Wanda’s touch. She does trust Wanda—she’s known her long enough, and they’ve been through worse together. It wouldn’t be the first or second or third time she allowed Wanda to cast an illusion in her mind. But those were always in controlled spaces when they let the professor from Westchester come in and see just what the team was made of, not on a sweat-soaked training mat at the New Avengers Facility.

But Wanda doesn’t look like she did when she was out trying to take down the Avengers. There’s a different sort of intensity in her eyes—a look of passion rather than pain. “Okay,” Natasha says, still pressing Wanda into the mat with a punishing grip. “Show me.”

It doesn’t take much—Natasha knows she’s in an altered state, she knows it isn’t real, but now Wanda is on a bed instead of on the mat, wearing nothing at all instead of yoga pants and a tank top. Her breasts are small and soft, nipples hard against Natasha’s own bare chest, and Natasha can practically smell her cunt, she’s so wet. Natasha is wet, too, and swollen—painfully so. It’s a jarring sensation, going from fight to fuck in a matter of seconds, body going from a muscled warrior’s to a tangle of sensitive nerves and panting breath.

It feels like flying.

“Told you, Black Widow,” Wanda says, voice husky and sweet as she looks up at Natasha from her prone state. She cups the back of Natasha’s head, fingers tangling in her hair, and tugs her down for a kiss. Her lips are warm, smooth with what smells and tastes like lip balm, and she slides her tongue against Natasha’s, inviting a deep intimacy Natasha hasn’t felt in way too long. “Touch me,” she whispers, spreading her legs, and that musky smell makes Natasha’s body go taut with arousal. Wanda ducks down to press her lips to Natasha’s breast, lower teeth just grazing her nipple—Natasha can feel it, it’s so real, the coolness that comes when Wanda removes her mouth. “Get inside me.”

Natasha is lost in lust as she obeys, hand sliding down Wanda’s belly, but just as she slips a finger into the slick, hot folds of Wanda’s cunt, she finds herself flat on her back, looking up at the buzzing lights of the training facility, breath heaving out of her chest.

Wanda is already across the room, sipping from her water bottle. She waves cheerfully, a smug grin spreading across her flushed face. “See, that does work better than punching you, doesn’t it?”

Natasha wants to be angry, wants to chastise herself for losing control. But she never allowed herself control to begin with—she gave it all to Wanda. And Wanda looks happier—prouder—than Natasha has seen her look in weeks. Natasha sits up, bracing herself on her hands. “If you keep looking at me like that, we won’t make it to a bed next time,” she says, voice coming out hoarse and sated. Her body feels soft and pleasantly sore, like she really did just come back from a wild night in bed with a dangerous woman.

Much to Natasha’s surprise, Wanda laughs. “Next time? I like that. Maybe next time…” she pauses, biting her lip, like she’s suddenly shy. “Maybe next time it doesn’t have to be something I made up for you.”

“I think,” Natasha says, standing on shaky legs, “that I like the sound of that, too.”